These days you can smell the alcohol on their breath-- Maybe it's because we're coming to the end (she said) Where the poets gather to discuss The empty axis where the temperate zones and equatorial zones and polar caps and rainforest zones the Mojave desert and the Himalayan mountains used to spin. These days the poets are spending days working in their cars-- Cars which haven't been taken care of like parts or else they work with illustrators trying to publish children's books with pictures of cars and beards. Lewis Carroll or Milne-like verse Thirty-three sections in each And stumbling through the cross pages like slow wavering trills of a guitar they undress themselves-- cast aside their jeans, t-shirts, socks, scarves, hats, pants, glasses (especially those) and dead-drunk leaning on a lamppost the poets kiss everyone and lose face again and they go home. It's probably just the malt-liquor. I think that I shall have another drink It's already been 18 days in a row of insobriety That I've thrown myself into the bottle and tried to shatter the inside (she said) we're not still in the bottle?